Preview of Forthcoming Book

The draft outside was cold as Lyle Moune turned up the heat in his car. Reclining in the front seat of his pickup truck, he puffed anxiously on a cigarette while glancing pensively from side-to-side. Twenty minutes had already elapsed and he could feel himself growing increasingly impatient. He never could have envisioned himself in this position. As he sat in the parking lot of the Woodgrove Shopping Plaza on that gloomy Sunday morning, thoughts of yesteryear inundated his mind. Outside, the barren branches of trees hung lifelessly, swaying to and fro with the bitter December wind. His vacant stare caught the reflection in the rearview mirror as his shifty eyes found it nearly impossible not to remain transfixed on the clock radio. Minutes seemed like hours. He was growing restlessly agitated as he cracked his window an inch to flick out the remainder of his cigarette. Andre, or at least that's what the man called himself, had indicated to him two hours earlier that he would be pulling up in a red Ford. Where was he? As he sat there motionless, he cursed himself repeatedly under his breath. By this point, Angela would have nothing to do with him. He had contemplated leaving the country, but where would he go? What would he do? Just then out of the corner of his eye, he observed a fire-engine red Ford pick-up truck edging perpendicular through the parking lot. Was this him? He flicked his high-beams with the faint hope that he would be noticed. He didn't have to. His cell phone rang, catching him off-guard. It's simultaneous vibration startled him as he fumbled the device clumsily, dropping it between the cushioned seats which supported his portly frame. He muttered a slew of curses before finally retrieving the phone and answering anxiously. "Hello". By this time, the pick-up truck had positioned itself on his driver side. The voice at the other end was deep and raspy, cloaked in heavily accented English. "Get in the car". Before he could respond, the line cut off. As he opened the door, the unforgiving Winter wind smacked his face, nearly blowing away his beige fedora. He could not tell through the tinted windows how many occupants were in the vehicle as he scattered over to the passenger side door and threw himself in. The man in the car sat motionless, his dark shades obscuring his rugged facial features. He sported grizzled facial hair and a dark, tanned complexion. He did not even bother to glance over to Lyle as he puffed on a cigarette, blowing the smoke casually out the window. "You have the money?". His voice was raspy and it was clear he was not disposed to socialize. "Yes, I do... Ten-thousand". Lyle handed him the envelope, stuffed with big-faced hundred dollar bills as the man in the driver seat methodically counted out the sum. Truth be told, Lyle did not feel like waiting for him to count, but he was not in the position to convey his preferences. He was strictly there for the number and documents. That's all he believed he needed for his nightmare to be over, at least for now. The man in the driver seat reached into his heavy winter jacket and produced a manila envelope. He quickly opened it and found what he was looking for. The contents of the envelope contained a single piece of paper with a nine-digit number scrawled on it, a driver's license, and passport. Lyle had got what he came for. The wait, it appeared, was worth it.
In another corner of the country, in another time, another world, the sun slowly faded under the warm Summer sky in suburbia New Jersey. The thickness and humidity of the stagnant July air still loomed heavy as Steven Daniels stepped out of his parents' home and made his way to his car parked in the driveway. The house was tucked away on the corner of a winding street in an affluent township that Steven had called home for the past fifteen years. Nearly all of his childhood memories growing up had roots in this township. He had moved there when he was but ten-years old, and had made many contacts and a plethora of friends going through the school system. Nearly everyone knew him or knew of him or one of his three siblings which included two younger brothers and a younger sister nearly ten years his junior. His father, through hard work and a sharp business acumen, was a wealthy contractor with a prospective eye for flipping homes in the area, typically making a pretty profit on the turnaround. Everything he had needed and much of what he wanted he possessed. At 27, he himself had quite a storied past. A slave to tactile desires, he had decided to take the easier road in life as of late. The month prior, he quit his job as a compliance manager to return to a life of riley. For nearly two years, he had abstained from the drinking and carousing that had haunted him for years. A notorious womanizer, he had left behind several relationships in his wake, much which could be attributed to his own lustful yearnings. For the last year leading up to this Summer, he had been involved with a girl, who, by virtue of her own upbringing and ambitions, had motivated him to pursue higher academic and professional goals. But it was all over now. Her parents had put an end to that. Much to her own credit, she had held out quite some time, not succumbing to her father's pressure and threats. Yet there was only so much she could take. Financial muscle had won out in the end. She had little choice. Steven had noticed it coming months in advance, and was spared the emotional blow of a breakup in part due to his foresight. Yet, she had undoubtedly changed him in that one year. He had quit drinking entirely because of her. She had pleaded with him to stop and he had finally relented. He took note of her appreciation of the matter, which served to inspire him to continue abstaining from alcohol. Yet, now it was all over. The end was there, and Steven, in a strange way, was somewhat relieved the relationship was terminated. As much as he had been accustomed to eating, sleeping, and sharing his life with her, he was now a free man. The apartment they shared in Hoboken was a thing of the past, and he had proceeded to move back home in a state of bewildered hope. Just the other week he had quit the lofty job he held. His motivations for doing so he himself was unsure about. All he knew was that he wanted to be free - free from playing the good-boy role which had been a heavy cloak to don. The first thing he wanted to do after quitting was get a drink. On the ride home from the last day of work, only a week after he had ended things with her, he was wondering where would be a good place to let loose when heavy traffic diverted him from his normal course home, forcing him to take an earlier exit off the highway which served as the central artery between suburbia and urban decay. Fate, it appears, will not be denied. Getting off the exit, traffic was still congested. As he inched steadily along the main strip in a city which was a far-cry from his suburban roots, he noticed VIP's. "Gentleman's Club", the sign read. Growing up, he had chanced on the seedy establishment on more than one occasion, sometimes as a last resort on a lackluster evening. However, he had never managed to establish an affinity for the bar where scantily-clad women danced for dollars. On a whim, he pulled over to the side of the road, parked his car, and jumped out. This was it. The liberty bell in his head was still reverberating loudly as he walked up to the club and opened the door. The music was deafening; he could hear it as he approached the entrance. Multi-colored strobe lights reflected from the ceiling, casting inconsistent glares on the beautiful women on stage.
Steven sat down as his eyes peered over at the women shaking their seductive bodies. Beautiful, full-bodied women with smiles from ear to ear. He got the attention of the waitress and ordered a drink; Tom Collins, an old favorite of his. He immediately struck-up a conversation with the bartender who told him her name was Luciana. He had a good ear for accents, but didn't need it to know she was Brazilian. In fact, most of the women working there were. If they weren't South American, they were most likely Russian; or from some other country in Eastern Europe. It was one or the other. Simple as that. Approximately 90% of them were in the country on student visas; and this was their university. Most had remained in the United States illegally after their length of stay had expired. That's why working as a dancer suited them best. It was a cash-under-the-table operation - no taxes to declare, no monetary declarations. They gave a percentage of their earnings to the bouncers and for those that didn't drive, a percentage went to their chauffers who typically charged about thirty dollars for a ride back to Newark. If the girl was Brazilian, Newark was where she lived. The city has a large Portuguese population residing in the Ironbound Section, uptown Newark; otherwise known as down-neck; in the streets and alleyways which jutted off of Ferry Street; the main drag in a multicolored, urban melting pot of cultures and backgrounds. Dozens of Portugese shops lined this central avenue, everything from restaurants and nightclubs to check-cashing establishments and food markets. The section of town was well-known for its fine bakeries, many which struck oil establishing business ties delivering freshly-baked breads and rolls to establishments throughout New Jersey. There are several well-reputed bars and nightclubs which also became popular with out-of-towners for their eclectic and diverse appeal. For men wishing to engage in extramarital affairs, Ferry Street was the ideal place to shop around for several reasons. Firstly, there was quite a diverse selection of attractive women to choose from. Besides the obvious, most women were there illegally and would be enthralled with the idea of a wealthy man to marry them - or at least provide for them, take them shopping, buy them jewelery, whatever. Thirdly, from the man's point of view, Newark was secluded enough from the rest of suburbia for them to do their dirt with little chance of their wives ever finding out. We're not talking about a small municipal township where everyone knows everyone elses buisness and people sing like canaries. It's a blue-collar neighborhood where men and women are alike out for a quick buck. Cheating Uncle Sam was not so much a desire as a necessity.
The women who worked at VIP's were among those in Newark who had arrived in America with little more than pocket cash and a few contacts who had settled into the area prior to them. One girl takes the plunge, leaves her home, lands in America. She gets a job dancing, does fairly well, and before you know it, her friend from her hometown decides to venture over to the States, lives with her until she gets on her feet, gets hooked up with a dancing job, and so the cycle continues. The women chase the greenback, leaving Brazil with the hope of making some quick cash, and quite possibly returning after a few months hard work, bringing back with them a small fortune. They then live quite well for some time, give some money to their family, and do it again. That's how it works. Things get bad enough in Brazil, they leave to travel to America to make a few dollars, return with their bounty, spread the muck, and do it again. There are a few obstacles, however. After 9/11, the infrastructure of the American government changed. For accountability reasons, major revisions were made and the entire immigration system from the ground-up was revamped. Firstly, there was the creation of new federal agencies, such as the Department of Homeland Security. For obvious reasons, fingers were pointed at the federal government when the identities of the terrorists were not only revealed, but were found to have entered the country almost at free-will and illegally. Questions arose about how these assassins could simply enter the United States unobstructed. The result? Take the heat off of the government and pacify the people by tightening legal belts and, as they say in Latin, creating circuses to please the masses. The result was the creation of the DHS, which became responsible for curbing and checking immigration flow and stuck with the impossible responsibility of guranteeing the protection of American citizens from foreign threats. Similar to the multi-colored flags raised on a beach during rough tides, they started this bullshit program of projected levels of threats, you know, yellow being elevated, red being guarded, and so on and so forth. This proved to be about as ineffective as any program could get; yet, the masses are kept happy at what appeals to them visually, so they buy the crap. One thing that did change substantially, however, was the government's response to the tide of immigrants who reach the borders on a daily basis. Uncle Sam became much more strict and selective to say the least. As a general fact of life that dictates people are unable to control the events that happen to them, yet they are able to manage their reactions to those events, people willing to immigrate into the United States were forced to resort to more clever ways of entering the country. The immigration lottery didn't cut it. There are a plethora of ways for someone to enter the country if they truly want to. They can apply for a student visa, which is what most of the dancers did do. In fact, if you struck up a conversation with any one of them, nearly all would say they were going to school for something. People could also petition for a foreign fiancee or enter the country with the intent of developing a business venture. This was a risky alternative though because it typically placed one's legal status dependant on the success of the buisness itself. Most student visas lasted a few months. During this time, immigrants needed to show proof that they were, in fact attending some sort of school. The girls from South America came here under this pretense, and VIP's is where they supported themselves. The adult entertainment industry in the United States can trace its roots back to the New York / New Jersey area. Within the nightclub trade, certain groups sprung up to capitalize on these ventures to not only profit, but also to assist individuals wishing to cross the border. In short, immigration became a big buisness as a direct response to the government's attempt to clamp down on it. Nearly the same thing happened with prohibition in the 1920's. The government outlaws something, and clever criminals develop an adaptive response to not only maneuver around the prohibition, but succeed at profiting from it as well. One of the federal departments enforcing immigration laws at one point was the INS, or Immigration and Naturalization Services. The INS was chiefly responsible for investigating illicit activity within the context of immigration. Being a single entity in a larger governmental system, it lacked the efficiency and oversight necessary to handle so a big a responsibility. In 2003, it was absolved and the DHS assumed responsibility of governing the stem of rising illegal immigration. The DHS, being at the top tier of the hierarchy, divided into several branches which each were handed the task of enforcing more specific guidelines. One of these departments is the USCIS, or United States Customs and Immigration Services. They assume more of an administrative and clerical role of the immigration operation. It is through this department that petitions and requests for citizneship are granted or denied. If an immigrant wanted to marry someone and receive a green card to stay in the country, an interview was usually mandated in order to prove the relationship was based on mutual love and not common interest, so to speak. The interview was not your standard, run-of-the-mill dialogue either. The interviewers were trained to probe, and probe they did. Questions were asked regarding the eating, sleeping, and even showering habits of assumed spouses. They wanted to know people's favorite foods, favorite things to do, specific personal details to prove that there was in fact a legitimate relationship present. Branching out further from the DHS is the United States Customs and Border Protection, otherwise known by its acronym CBP. The CBP are the chief law enforcers within the DHS responsible for investigating complaints and crimes where border-crossing came into play. Everything from smuggling, border-running, and transnational identity theft rings were observed within this department. When investigating immigration crimes further away from the delineated borders, ICE got involved. ICE, or Immigration and Customs Enforcement, is one of the most feared agencies within immigration circles for several reasons. They are resolute. They need to justify their existence, since it costs to run a governmental department, to the federal government. They do so by attempting to stem the tide of illegal activity within the United States. In truth, both ICE and the USCIS work in tandem. They share the same case files and accounts. There is very minor difference between the two; yet enough for separation. These two agencies work hand-in-hand with the CBP and DHS to attempt to curb the tide of illegal activity both within the borders and on the circumference of the United States. The way the social system works in America, very often, only federal agencies may get invovled when it comes to detaining a suspected illegal immigrant. Most municipal township police officers can't touch somoene who is illegally in the country. They don't have the authority to. The rules get even more muddied as they're explored. Illegal immigrants are allowed to get driver's licenses and have just as many, if not more, rights than legal citizens. As a result of these new legislations, a criminal underworld developed within the sprawling urban centers eminating out of New York City; which has the highest concentrration of illegal immigrants in the United States. This urban sprawl trickled down into neighboring New Jersey, where population centers such as Jersey City and Newark became convenient locations far enough away from New York yet close enough for members of the criminal underworld to exercise power and leverage. Newark itself, with the Peter Rodino USCIS office on Broad Street, has an Immigration regional center, with the other nearest one located in New York City. Two prime spots which served as hotbeds of immigration for those wishing to become United States citizens. Once these dancers touched down on American soil with their soon-to-be-expired visas, they had several options. Many of them utilized the time to make a significant amount of money dancing in nightclubs, and there was another percentage which did not want to return to South America. These women, once their visas expired, became dependent on their jobs to provide them with financial support whilst in the country illegally. Some sought an American man willing to marry and support them. Many men frequently did, leaving behind wives and children for the tantalizing women in nightclubs. The women who did stay past their expiration dates sought assistance and support through underworld organizations that got rich bringing people into the country illegally. These organizations, so to speak, laughingly, were very shrewd when they went about their business. The scams involved high-technology, international bonds, and telecommunications capabilities beyond the wildest schemes imaginable. WATS, or wide-area-telecommunications service, played a significant role in this whole enterprise, as did the development of CDMA, or code division multiple access, which indicated a shift away from the standard Radio phone networks which were less secure and open to exploitation. Since nearly all government records on file is computerized data, criminals had to resort to higher levels of execution when creating ways to outsmart the government itself. The advent of technology ushered in exciting new possibilities, yet it also brought with it new doors of crime. Computer task forces were created, in response to cybercrime. Cybercrime itself is a relatively new field for law enforcmenet, and most agencies are actually behind the times of criminal enterprises existing with computerized technological domains. The reason being is that levels of knowledge of computers have grown apace for both criminals and law enforcmenet. In addition, nobody, not even governmental organizations, can keepu up with the pace of rapidly shifting technology, and this is where many criminals have the upper hand. A twenty-something hacker, can, and has broken into files and encrypted data. Individuals have managed to exploit upper tier organizations at the highest levels; but this was petty crime compared to an operation which took years in the making. Hacking into a protected network is corrosive and conspicuous. This was a subtle operation which existed below the radar. When teenage script kiddies manage to hack into their school's website, this is noticeable crime. This is not what we're talking about. The story begins but does not end with a rogue Microsoft developer, something of an evil genius who rebelled against the system to eventually utilize his know-how to wreak havoc. The operation itself was so sub-rosa that nobody ever discussed it. Individuals who attempted to speak of it were typically blackmailed and brutalized. His name was Ben. As a developer for Microsoft in the late nineties, he slowly and gradually became infuriated with the greed and avarice that characterized Bill Gates' monopoly over the computer industry. I must create my own system or be enslaved by another man's was his motto. However, not even Ben could ever realize at the time what repercussions would arise as the results of the system he created, and how the black-marked immigration trade would utilize his technology in order to create an underground criminal enterprise of smuggling illegal immigrants into the United States in a story that defied belief.
Thousands of miles away, in Poland, Thomas fumbled the keys to his car, slammed the doors shut, and walked slowly to the entrance of the BRE bank. The bitter Winter wind pierced his eyes and stung his face. The instructions dictated to him by Mariusz were simple but he still found the need to rehearse them methodically in his head. Pausing a minute to repeat the lines he was given, he knew it was impossible to turn back now. Unconscionable cruelty was a thorn in his side and a monkey on his back. Pensively darting his eyes around the barren parking lot, he found it difficult not to think about the article published in the gazetta newspaper only a few weeks before. The regional bank in Cracova had closed mysteriously due to problems reporters labeled as bankruptcy. No matter now. With a feigned aura of confidence, he pulled the door wide open as his frost-bitten hands warmly embraced the heat emanating from the central lobby. It was his turn to open up a line of credit. He initially did not believe Mariusz had done what he proudly proclaimed. The bank had been penetrated. Money was flowing. They had but a few months at most to remain in the country. Even prior to the article, they had begun to feel the heat. There were whisperings in the air. People talk, yet few believed. This was only the beginning.
The operation never had a name. There were but a few tried and true individuals who were privy to its origins. Nobody could imagine the networked program which had run rampant, spreading like a plague throughout homes and businesses. It was social hijacking at its finest; system penetration at its most obvious, social engineering at its core. It was still quite surprising to them that most unwitting individuals failed to ever notice its presence; or simply assume the files and logs are adherent to the computer itself. When he had initially discovered and found out the possibilities that existed, megalomaniacal thoughts of world domination had not yet entered the forefront of his mind. In and of itself, the system was a well-organized communications  network which functioned from the implementation of backdoor access and advanced computer technology. A specific management information base existed and was kept aloft through simple network management protocol on an extensive level. Knowledge is power, and on the strength of this idea, network information provided for the implementation of a database of the various network devices which enabled network administrators to detect malfunctions and optimize network performance within the system itself. The lifeblood of the system, which also contributed to its ubiquity, was its effective utilization of information managment as well as information accessibility. When the system penetrated an area, such as a municipal library, there was an ordered process which initiated the takeover. A Faronics-based program called Deep Freeze was initialized. Deep Freeze, as was evident in the Millburn public library not far from Steven's hometown, prevented the tampering of software, files, and programs from external sources while simultaneously freezing, or caching snapshots of webpages when accessed by various users. In many terminals, webpages were not up-to-date. What existed instead were cached versions or snapshots of webpages which simply reflected how they appeared as early as months prior. The pharming and phishing tactics utilized created a virtual server environment which lacked legitimacy.
The flight across the Atlantic had been rough. She had hardly slept. She couldn't. A mixture of excitement, anticipation, and resentment conjoined to prohibit a drop of sleep from touching her eyelids. Not to mention, the amfetamina she had ingested prior to the flight didn't help her cause either. Tired, ragged, bleary-eyed, yet still hopeful, Magda Konopka was just happy to set foot off the plane. She hadn't ate nor slept in the last two days. Her thin and petite, scrawny frame wrestled with her carry-on luggage which consisted of no more than a handbag. As the plane finally touched-down in Montreal, it surprised her, initially, to hear the pilot make the landing announcement in French, a language she was entirely unfamiliar with. Slight, ungainly, no more than five-feet, four-inches tall, Magda's face bore a chiseled complexion. Her curved cheekbones sunk deep within the recesses of her powdered face, dusted with heavy applications of makeup and bronzer. Vanity had been a vice since her youth, and she had learned to maneuver herself to capitalize on her physical attributes with a charm and charisma which could be felt by all who came into contact with her. Her childish grin offset her eastern European, Slavic features. Beady, slanted, gypsy-like eyes with pristine skin, she had acquired a gift of gab at an early age, yet today she was anything but eager to engage. Several times a day, she found herself captivated by the reflection in the mirror, still trying to grow accustomed to the plastic surgery which had so drastically altered her complexion. Botox injections were amalgamated with the maximization of slanted eyelids and accentuated cheekbones. Janek, who had accompanied her, seemed less impressed by the whole affair. Naturally rough, his face was worn for a man of but thirty-two and his sunken eyes betrayed lack of sleep and worry. Standing over six feet tall, his face displayed a natural curvature with sunken eyelids and a deep brow. Typically prim and proper, his composure was offset by the six hour flight and an anxiety which hovered over him like a dark cloud. He desperately hoped they would not give him problems. Why should they? Do they even know where he came from? Do they have any idea what life was like before for him? Did they even care? He was a victim of persecution. He was a refugee who sought political asylum. This was his story. He had arrived in Canada to seek a better life for him and his younger sister, who, by virtue of convenience, doubled as his wife when the situation called for it. He was a Wroblewski, born and bred, yet had abandoned the name. His dream was to become a police officer; and this aspiration coincided nicely with his desire for control. Would their story even matter? Probably not. He was just one of many, another brick in the wall. Magda was his last surviving link. His family was gone. It was now just him and her. Several times during the flight he had been plagued with anxiety of doubt, contemplating persistently whether he was making the correct decision. His solitary hope rested on the fact that he had one strong thing going for him. This was a savvy technical know-how of computers that bordered on brilliance. He had been a network systems' administrator back home. His job had entailed providing security for a large industrial shipping organization where hacking attempts were frequent and underhanded attempts at system penetration common. This was his one strength which bolstered his hope. He cast a quick glance at his watch as the plane remained taxied in the runway. He looked out the small window and could see nothing but workers scurrying to and fro, men on mobile implements of some sort making their way back and forth from the hangar. The sky outside was overcast, shadowed, grey, and dark. This was not at all what he had imagined it to look like, but it really didn't matter at this point. He was eager to get off the plane, and his impatience was beginning to get the best of him. It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. Dragan had promised to be there, waiting in the terminal no later than three-thirty. What was taking so long? He muttered a slew of obscenities under his breath and shot a calculating glance at Magda, who stared back without a trace of emotion. Part of him wanted to embrace her, kiss her, tell her how much he loved her. He itched to yell out in excitement and proclaim triumphantly that they had done it. They were free. There was a new life ahead for them. They were going to make it. Dragan had emmigrated to the country nearly two years earlier and as far as they knew, had thus far fared well. Through mail correspondences, he had informed Janek that he had got a job working in the communications field, yet he failed to elaborate with more specific details. He had mentioned, albeit only briefly, that Canada was only half the battle. Through tattered innuendos, he had indicated that more was to be gained further south, and despite the risk, the payoff would be worth it. Thoughts flooded his mind a mile-a-minute, as he began to hear the trampling of feet and notice the slow but steady procession towards the exit door. He grabbed hold of his carry-on luggage which had been stocked overhead and threw another glance at Magda, who leaned over, and planted a kiss on her brother's cheek as she embraced him. "Janek, today is the beginning of our new life. Everything will be fine. Do you think Dragan is here yet?"
"I'm sure he is. He told me that he would be waiting for us no later than three-thirty. He had better be. Where else have we to go?" He hadn't pined for humor, yet the incredulous question provoked a fit of laughter from Magda, who giggled with the carefree nonchalance of a school girl. Already in possession of her luggage, the line towards the exit door had made significant progress and in mere moments they would be on their way out. She dug her hand into the recesses of her pocket and yanked out two solitary gelcaps. Sans water, she tossed the gelatin-coated tablets into her mouth and swallowed hard. Those were the last two. Despite a foolhardy wilingness, Janek had strictly forbade her from bringing any more on to the flight. It was not worth the risk. Although she hadn't slept a wink and had barely ate a morsel in the last forty-eight hours, she was wide-eyed and alert with the energy of an indefatigable runner. By the time she and janek had began inching towards the exit door, she could feel her temple throbbing as the miligrams of amfetamina coursed through her bony frame. She knew it would last only a few more hours, if that. After that time, if she couldn't get more, she would crash, and crash hard. Hunger would set-in with the power of a hurricane. She hated this more than the feeling of pins and needles which would begin emanating around her feet and extremities. Categorically illegal in almost every European nation, there was a thriving black market trade throughout cities such as Warsaw, Sarajevo, Prague, Brno, and Skopje where the little stimulant pills she had grown dependant on fetched a pretty penny. Tolerance was built quickly, and the undesirable withdrawal symptoms were so to be avoided that users generally did whatever they could to get more. Magda understood that this was not so in North America. In fact, many people were actually prescribed these as medications to treat various psychological ailments. She balked at this notion and laughed at the fact that someone might actually need amfetamina to help them psychologically. As would become evident, her addiction to the pills would serve less as a means to get high and more as a tool which enabled her to carry out nefarious deeds under the shadow of night as her lovers lay prostrate in bed under the waxing moonlight, intoxicated with drink, false hope, and delusions.
Thomas felt a curious sense of relief as he proceeded through the lobby and locked eyes with the teller sitting positioned behind a quarter-inch thick glass panel frame. "Hello. I'd like to apply for a credit card". The teller nodded methodically and pointed across the room to a middle-aged, portly woman sitting behind a desk. Turning around, he approached the woman, who was currently on the phone. Slumping down in the reclining chair perpendicular to her desk, he sat down and patiently waited for her to finish her conversation. After several minutes which had seemed like an eternity, he finally had her full attention. "Yes, I'd like to apply for a credit card".
"Certainly, sir. I'll need to see two forms of identification". Thomas reached into his overcoat and presented the banker with a driver's license and passport. "Thank you.  Please wait several minutes and in the mean time, if you would be so kind to please fill out this application". Rote memory filled in the lines for him. He had rehearsed the information at least a dozen times. Strangely, he did not feel as nervous as he initially imagined. The ink from the pen flowed as smoothly as the information leaked from his brain. This would be easier than he thought. Upon completion of the application, the teller indicated that she would need to get approval. Almost instantly, she had handed him back his documents. "Congratulations, sir, you were approved". Thomas thanked the woman. He walked out of BRE bank with a line of credit worth 20,000 Polish zlotys. Mariusz would be pleased.
Mariusz himself was the brainchild. He developed a fascination for computers as a teenager. What evolved into what would become known as the system began with one person realizing the potential of remote intrusion. Several factors facilitated this discovery. Firstly, a majority of individuals utilize computers as simple machines. Tools designed to facilitate the storage, retrieveal, and transmission of information. Not much is explored beyond that. Sitting in a coffeeshop as a teenager, he found it difficult not to notice the computers which popped up on the local network each time he connected. Was it possible to gain access to one of these other laptops? He found out that it was. This was how the story started, or so the legend went. Different people in Poland had different versions of the story, depending on who you asked and who was willing to talk. Many computers were infiltrated at first, but produced few, if any outstanding leads. Rumor had it that a local wealthy buisnessman was perhaps the first victim, back in the late nineties. Unauthorized access to his laptop revealed he was having an extramarital affair. Social engineering techniques facilitated the process. In essence, he was blackmailed for several thousand dollars; some say this was how the funds were first generated. People were recruited to penetrate successful local businesses, and then larger companies as confidence grew. Thus, the story was unraveled. By the time BRE had collapsed, no hard evidence existed beyond rumors. Those responsible had fled to neighboring countries, others, like Mariusz, travelled to America and honed their talents catering to the illegal immigrant trade which presented the perfect opportunity at the perfect time.



DANIEL S. ABRAHAMIAN
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