The Blue Nowhere [Abridged, Audiobook] [Audio Cassette]

In this 21st century version of the "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral" two computer wizards engage in the kind of high-tech combat that only a hacker could love. Wyatt Gillette, a cybergenius who's never used his phenomenal talent for evil, is sitting in a California jail doing time for a few harmless computer capers when he gets a temporary reprieve--a chance to help the Computer Crimes Unit of the state police nail a cracker (a criminally inclined hacker) called Phate who's using his ingenious program, Trapdoor, to lure innocent victims to their death by infiltrating their computers. Gillette and Phate were once the kings of cyberspace--the Blue Nowhere of the title--but Phate has gone way past the mischievous electronic pranks they once pulled and crossed over to the dark side. While Trapdoor can hack its way into any computer, it's Phate's skill at "social engineering" as well as his remarkable coding ability that makes him such a menace to society. As Wyatt explains to the policeman who springs him from prison so that he can find and stop Phate before he kills again, "It means conning somebody, pretending you're someone you're not. Hackers do it to get access to databases and phone lines and pass codes. The more facts about somebody you can feed back to them, the more they believe you and the more they'll do what you want them to." --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

'Slick, pacey and jam-packed with action.'

'Deaver has produced an exciting cyberthriller.' -- Sunday Telegraph 'Slick, pacey and jam-packed with action.' -- Yorkshire Evening Post 'Once again displays his penchant for multiple false endings...This is the most ambitious attempt yet to turn computer crime into fiction...Deaver's customary brilliant plotting.' -- Sunday Times 'Jeffrey Deaver's story, set in California, sets out to dazzle and bewilder readers with all manner of cyber-clues and deceptions...a classic detective yarn.' -- Gerald Kaufman, The Scotsman 'He has pulled off the considerable coup of introducing two distinctive new heroes...Recently, authors such as Patricia Cornwell have come adrift when trying to create a fresh formula for their books, but Deaver writes as if the prose in the Blue Nowhere has been his house style all along. Working against the considerable disadvantage of an online villain - Deaver really has to work hard to make him truly sinister - he has created a high-tech thriller that suggests he need never go back to his Lincoln rhyme books. But he probably will.' -- Publishing News

'Deaver has produced an exciting cyberthriller' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

'Engrossing thriller that also imparts a wealth of computer info' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

'Slick, pacey and jam-packed with action' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Someone is killing people in Sacramento Valley. Seemingly unrelated, the deaths are perpetrated by a murderer who knows everything there is to know about the victims - who can kill them because of the intimacy he seems to have with them. An intimacy which is created by his ability to track their every move through the virtual world, as soon as they switch on their computer. Streetwise cop Frank Bishop is detailed to the case, allied unwillingly to a young hacker, Wyatt Gillette, who is sprung from prison to pit his brilliance against the criminal's. But no one knows who to trust in an environment where everything is suspect, and pressing the wrong letter on your keyboard may mean death. This is the novel that will make you hesitate every time you click on the box that says 'Are you sure you want to send this over the Internet?'

Jeff Deaver was a lawyer before quitting work to become a full-time writer. He divides his time between Washington, DC and California.

The battered white van had made her uneasy.

Lara Gibson sat at the bar of Vesta’s Grill on De Anza in Cupertino, California, gripping the cold stem of her martini glass and ignoring the two young chip-jocks standing nearby, casting flirtatious glances at her.
She looked outside again, into the overcast drizzle, and saw no sign of the windowless Econoline that, she believed, had followed her from her house, a few miles away, to the restaurant. Lara slid off the bar stool and walked to the window, glanced outside. The van wasn’t in the restaurant’s parking lot. Nor was it across the street in the Apple Computer lot or the one next to it, belonging to Sun Microsystems. Either of those lots would’ve been a logical place to park to keep an eye on her – if the driver had in fact been stalking her.

No, the van was just a coincidence, she decided – a coincidence aggravated by a splinter of paranoia.
She returned to the bar and glanced at the two young men who were alternately ignoring her and offering subtle smiles.

Like nearly all the young men here for happy hour they were in casual slacks and tie-less dress shirts and wore the ubiquitous insignia of Silicon Valley – corporate identification badges on thin canvas lanyard around their necks.

These two sported the blue cards of Sun Microsystems.
Other squadrons represented here were Compaq, Hewlett-Packard and Apple, not to mention a slew of new kids on the block, start-up Internet companies, which were held in some disdain by the venerable Valley regulars.

At thirty-two, Lara Gibson was probably five years older than her two admirers. And as a self-employed business-woman who wasn’t a geek – connected with a computer company – she was easily five times poorer. But that didn’t matter to these two men, who were already captivated by her exotic, intense face surrounded by a tangle of raven hair, her ankle boots, a red-and-orange gypsy skirt and a black sleeveless top that showed off hard-earned biceps.

She figured that it would be two minutes before one of these boys approached her and she missed that estimate by only ten seconds.

The young man gave her a variation of a line she’d heard a dozen times before: Excuse me don’t mean to interrupt but hey would you like me to break your boyfriend’s leg for making a beautiful woman wait alone in a bar and by the way can I buy you a drink while you decide which kneecap?
Another woman might have gotten mad, another woman might have stammered and blushed and looked uneasy or might have flirted back and let him buy her an unwanted drink because she didn’t have the wherewithal to handle the situation. But those would be women weaker than she.

Lara Gibson was "the queen of urban protection," as the San Francisco Chronicle had once dubbed her. She fixed her eyes on the man’s, gave a formal smile and said, "I don’t care for any company right now."

Simple as that. End of conversation.

He blinked at her frankness, avoided her staunch eyes and returned to his friend.

Power . . . it was all about power.

She sipped her drink.

In fact, that damn white van had brought to mind all the rules she’d developed as someone who taught women to protect themselves in today’s society. Several times on the way to the restaurant she’d glanced into her rearview mirror and noticed the van thirty or forty feet behind. It had been driven by some kid. He was white but his hair was knotted into messy brown dreadlocks. He wore combat fatigues and, despite the overcast and misty rain, sunglasses. This was, of course, Silicon Valley, home of slackers and hackers, and it wasn’t unusual to stop in Starbucks for a vente skim latte and be waited on by a polite teenager with a dozen body piercings, a shaved head and an outfit like inner-city gangsta’s. Still, the driver had seemed to stare at her with an eerie hostility.

Lara found herself absently fondling the can of pepper spray she kept in her purse.

Another glance out the window. No van. Only fancy cars bought with dot-com money.

A look around the room. Only harmless geeks.

Relax, she told herself and sipped her potent martini.

She glanced at the wall clock. Quarter after seven. Sandy was fifteen minutes late. Not like her. Lara pulled out her cell phone but the display read NO SERVICE.

She was about to find the pay phone when she glanced up and saw a young man enter the bar and wave at her. She knew him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place him.

His trim but long blond hair and the goatee had stuck in her mind. He wore white jeans and a rumpled blue work shirt. His concession to the fact he was part of corporate America was a tie; as befit a Silicon Valley businessman, though, the design wasn’t stripes or Jerry Garcia flowers but a cartoon Tweety Bird.

"Hey, Lara." He walked up and shook her hand, leaned against the bar. "Remember me? I’m Will Randolph. Sandy’s cousin? Cheryl and I met you on Nantucket – at Fred and Mary’s wedding."

Right, that’s where she recognized him from. He and his pregnant wife sat at the same table with Lara and her boyfriend, Hank. "Sure. How you doing?" --This text refers to the Paperback edition.