The Florentine Deception Read Online Free PDF Page A

accidentally hit the CAPSLOCK key before logging in. I continued down the listing:
    www.amazon.com
    Hephaestus
    shazam
    Not much to go on. Another challenge. I double-clicked on the Internet Explorer icon and surfed to the Amazon homepage. Once the page rendered, I found what I was looking for: just below the web page’s banner, Amazon.com welcomed Richard Lister back and recommended several new books he might be interested in. Like thousands of other websites, Amazon.com sends compact tracking beacons called “cookies” down to each customer’s computer to track their shopping habits and deliver personalized recommendations. Just what the computer sleuth ordered. I jotted Richard’s full name on my handy college-rule notepad.
    What were Amazon’s recommendations for Mr. Lister today? Healing Crystals and Gemstones: From Amethyst to Zircon for $16.98 and The Heartless Stone: A Journey Through the World of Diamonds, Deceit and Desire at the discount price of $25.72. The magnificent Mr. Lister was a morgue-meandering mineralogist. I jotted down the titles.
    From the main Amazon screen, I clicked on the “Your Account” tab and then clicked on the “Manage Address Book” link. As I’d feared, Amazon balked and immediately popped up a login page asking for Richard’s password before allowing me to see the goods. On a whim, I keyed in “Hephaestus,” the first of the two password-like keywords in the spyware’s log, and hit Enter. Remarkably, Amazon accepted the password, and after a brief delay, displayed its Billing and Shipping page containing Richard’s address:
    651 Latigo Canyon Road
    Malibu, CA 90265
    Score two points for the Fife-meister. I jotted this down, navigated back to the Account page and clicked the “Change Name, Email-address or Password” link. Amazon promptly delivered Richard’s registered email address, [email protected] , which I also scribbled onto my notepad. In two minutes and fifteen seconds, I had Richard’s full name, his home address, his email account, and his taste in books. Such is the power of the Internet and user-friendly online shopping.
    Just who was Richard Lister? Obviously a gem-hound. Wealthy enough to live in Malibu. Even spots in the trailer parks there cost millions. I searched for Richard’s full name and in about a tenth of a second, Google delivered sixty-two different matching websites. The first hit, a back-page story in the Los Angeles Times , looked interesting: “Malibu Man Acquitted of Antiquities Smuggling.” It read:
    â€œ After a sensational four-month court battle, Richard Lister, 52, of Malibu, California, has been acquitted of four smuggling charges. Last year, the retired archaeology professor and his brother, Ronald Lister, were charged with importing more than two dozen Iraqi archeological artifacts, a violation of federal law under the 1970 UNESCO Convention. The artifacts, a set of cylinder seals used to sign clay tablets, were believed to be between 4,500 to 5,500 years old, and were allegedly stolen from the Iraqi National Museum during the opening salvo of the 2003 war. Both men were found not guilty on four charges of smuggling; however Richard Lister was indicted on one count of transporting artifacts already illegally imported into the United States. Mr. Lister has been released on bail and has already filed an appeal, with his case pending hearing by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. ”
    The next few screens of search results were references to the same proceedings, and bore little additional information.
    Next, I decided to reconnoiter Richard’s email account. Consulting my notepad, I keyed “ yahoo.com ” into the browser. Just as with Amazon.com , Yahoo used tracking cookies to remember Richard, and welcomed him back. Unfortunately, it appeared that Richard had logged out since last reading his email, and Yahoo also requested a password to