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Meet Alex, the Russian Casino Hacker Who Makes Millions Targeting Slot Machines | WIRED


From: "Dave Farber" <farber () gmail com>
Date: Sat, 5 Aug 2017 14:11:12 -0400




Begin forwarded message:

From: Allan Davidson <alland () heckerty com>
Date: August 5, 2017 at 1:10:07 PM EDT
To: Dave Farber <farber () gmail com>
Subject: Meet Alex, the Russian Casino Hacker Who Makes Millions Targeting Slot Machines | WIRED

May be of interest to the list:

https://www.wired.com/story/meet-alex-the-russian-casino-hacker-who-makes-millions-targeting-slot-machines

Meet Alex, the Russian Casino Hacker Who Makes Millions Targeting Slot Machines

David Brandon Geeting for WIRED
Late last autumn, a Russian mathematician and programmer named Alex decided he’d had enough of running his 
eight-year-old business. Though his St. Petersburg firm was thriving, he’d grown weary of dealing with payroll, 
hiring, and management headaches. He pined for the days when he could devote himself solely to tinkering with code, 
his primary passion. The time had come for an exit strategy.
But Alex couldn’t just cash out as if he owned an ordinary startup because his business operates in murky legal 
terrain. The venture is built on Alex’s talent for reverse engineering the algorithms—known as pseudorandom number 
generators, or PRNGs—that govern how slot machine games behave. Armed with this knowledge, he can predict when 
certain games are likeliest to spit out money—insight that he shares with a legion of field agents who do the 
organization’s grunt work.
These agents roam casinos from Poland to Macau to Peru in search of slots whose PRNGs have been deciphered by Alex. 
They use phones to record video of a vulnerable machine in action, then transmit the footage to an office in St. 
Petersburg. There, Alex and his assistants analyze the video to determine when the games’ odds will briefly tilt 
against the house. They then send timing data to a custom app on an agent’s phone; this data causes the phones to 
vibrate a split second before the agent should press the “Spin” button. By using these cues to beat slots in 
multiple casinos, a four-person team can earn more than $250,000 a week.
Alex, who insists that his hacking doesn’t violate Russian law, fancies himself a bit of a Robin Hood—a champion for 
the common man against an avaricious casino industry. “Gaming manufacturers claim they provide ‘entertainment,’ but 
we all know the nature of this ‘entertainment’ a little too well,” he says by email. “All they and I are really 
doing is moving money. Their job is to help casinos take money from the people; my job is to help myself and the 
people take money from the casinos. Just a little counterweight to the global gambling system, where the house 
always wins.” Yet he also knows that his self-described “milking system” is considered criminal in several 
countries, including the United States: In 2014, four of his agents were indicted on federal fraud charges after 
sweeping through casinos in Missouri, Illinois, and California.
David Brandon Geeting for WIRED
Determined to find a way to score one last payday before shutting down his enterprise, Alex reached out to 
Aristocrat Leisure, an Australian slot machine manufacturer whose vulnerable products have been his chief targets. 
In a November 2016 email to Tracey Elkerton, the company’s global head of regulatory and product compliance, he 
offered to direct his agents to “cancel their work on Aristocrat slots to stop compromising your trademark” as well 
as “help your developers eliminate all design flaws.” He did not mention the fee he expected to be paid for these 
services, though he did note that he wished “to extract maximum money from my developments.”
Alex also insinuated that Aristocrat might face grave consequences if it chose to ignore him. “The matter could 
become worse if technical details would be available for your competitors or will be shared via internet or media,” 
he warned. To underscore the fact that he needed to be taken seriously, he ended the email with proof of his 
technical prowess: a mathematical breakdown of the supposedly secret PRNG that powers Aristocrat games like 50 Lions 
and Heart of Gold.
Clearly unsettled by the tenor of Alex’s approach, Elkerton suggested that they meet on neutral ground in the US. 
“If we were to arrange a meeting, our goal would be to understand the method that you have developed that is being 
used in various countries to cash out more money than expected from certain Aristocrat slot games,” she wrote in her 
reply.
Alex could never agree to such a meeting, of course; by setting foot on US soil he would be risking arrest. 
Frustrated by what he perceived as stalling on Aristocrat’s part, he decided to make Elkerton aware of just how much 
havoc he could wreak on her employer.
My own dialogue with Alex began in February of this year, after he read a story I’d written about his agents’ 
exploits in the US. (“I keep an eye on what becomes public regarding my business,” he explained via email.) His name 
had already come up twice in the course of my reporting—once from someone close to the fraud investigation in the 
Eastern District of Missouri and once in conversation with Willy Allison, a casino security consultant who has been 
tracking the St. Petersburg organization for years.
After much back and forth, Alex agreed to an on-the-record interview on the conditions that his surname not be used 
and that he could disregard questions about his personal life that struck him as too invasive. To bolster the 
veracity of what he shared, Alex supplied corroborating evidence in the form of emails, mathematical proofs, and 
audio recordings. I was able to verify several of his statements by checking them against legal documents or by 
consulting with people familiar with his organization’s work.
There are still several aspects of Alex’s story that could not be confirmed, however, starting with his education. 
He claims that after studying math and programming at a top Russian university, he spent two years at the FSB 
Academy, a government-run school that trains prospective members of the country’s intelligence apparatus. He also 
says he was once employed at a St. Petersburg military university that specializes in teaching cryptography and 
hardware hacking. During his formative years, Alex says, he never had the slightest interest in slot machines: “As a 
mathematician, I was aware of how odds work at an early age,” he says. “Mostly gambling appeared to me as nothing 
more than taxation on stupidity.”
Alex’s life-changing introduction to slots came about a decade ago, while he was working as a freelance hacker. A 
Russian casino hired him to learn how to tweak machines manufactured by Novomatic, an Austrian company, so that 
their odds would favor the house more than usual: The machine had been programmed to pay out 90 percent of the money 
it took in, a figure that Alex’s client wanted him to adjust down to 50 percent.
David Brandon Geeting for WIRED
In the course of reverse engineering Novomatic’s software, Alex encountered his first PRNG. He was instantly 
fascinated by the elegance of this sort of algorithm, which is designed to spew forth an endless series of results 
that appear impossible to forecast. It does this by taking an initial number, known as a seed, and then mashing it 
together with various hidden and shifting inputs—the time from a machine’s internal clock, for example. Writing such 
algorithms requires tremendous mathematical skill, since they’re supposed to produce an output that defies human 
comprehension; ideally, a PRNG should approximate the utter unpredictability of radioactive decay.
After wrapping up the casino gig, Alex spent six months teaching himself everything he could about PRNGs—in part 
because he admired their beauty but also because he knew that such expertise could prove profitable.“I mastered it 
to the point where I can develop such algorithms myself, on a level I am yet to see in a gambling machine,” says 
Alex, who will never be accused of lacking confidence. “It’s in my bloodstream now. I feel the numbers; I know how 
they move.”
In 2008 Alex unleashed his newfound mastery on the gambling world, hiring a small group of employees to “milk” 
Novomatic machines throughout eastern Europe. (Three years later, Novomatic became the first slots manufacturer to 
warn its customers that some of its PRNGs had been compromised.) After Russia largely outlawed its casino industry 
in 2009, resulting in a massive sell-off of gaming equipment, Alex was able to get his hands on an Aristocrat Mark 
VI slot machine cabinet. He reverse engineered the PRNGs for numerous Mark VI games and the popular machine—more 
than 100,000 are still on casino floors worldwide—soon became his burgeoning organization’s favorite prey: In the 
2014 case in Missouri, for example, every count in the indictment relates to the bilking of a Mark VI.
Alex recruits his field agents online and meets few of them in person, ensuring that they won’t be able to reveal 
too much about his operation if they’re ever caught and interrogated. He pays little attention to the applicants’ 
education or professional backgrounds, since the job requires minimal know-how: The entire training regimen takes 
just two hours, during which prospective agents are taught how to use the customized phone app that prompts them 
when to hit a machine’s Spin button.
What Alex values most in his employees is discretion: He looks for people who, he says, “understand the importance 
of covertness in their actions and general behavior” and who “look respectable enough not to cause unnecessary 
suspicion.” Before they embark on their first assignment, new agents are offered the chance to purchase an 
“insurance policy”: In exchange for taking a bigger cut of the agent’s winnings, the organization will provide legal 
assistance and financial aid to the agent’s family in case of arrest.
Those arrests have been rare, since the milking system isn’t technically illegal in many jurisdictions. When agents 
have been caught by casino security guards, they’re usually just stripped of their winnings and banned from the 
premises. But Alex has weathered a few notable legal setbacks, which have resulted in some of his secrets spilling 
forth.
In the Missouri case, for example, one of the defendants, a Kazakh national who had been living in Florida, decided 
to cooperate with the FBI in exchange for leniency. (His three codefendants, all of whom were Russian citizens, pled 
guilty and received short prison sentences.) And in 2016, a Czech man opened up to Singaporean authorities after he 
was charged, along with two Russian accomplices, with violating that nation’s Casino Control Act. These two 
informants divulged how their fellow agents record video of slot machines without arousing suspicion (they often 
conceal phones behind mesh shirt pockets) and how the organization’s revenue gets divvied up (90 percent goes back 
to St. Petersburg).
Besides his Robin Hood justification, Alex defends his enterprise as cunning but by no means criminal. “We, in fact, 
do not meddle with the machines—there is no actual hacking taking place,” he says. “My agents are just gamers, like 
the rest of them. Only they are capable of making better predictions in their betting. Yes, that capability is 
gained through my technology, it’s true. But why should it be against the law? On the basic level, it’s like using a 
calculator for counting faster and more accurately, rather than relying on one’s natural capacity.” It is logic very 
much in sync with Russia’s culture of cutthroat capitalism.
Just before Aristocrat shut down for Australia’s Christmas break last year, Tracey Elkerton received an unexpected 
phone call from a man who identified himself only as Peter. “I’m calling on behalf of Alex,” he explained in lightly 
accented English, without informing Elkerton that he was secretly recording the call. (Alex let WIRED listen to the 
recording.) “He is a guy from Russia that you had an email exchange with? He hired me as an interpreter and he’s 
currently on the other line with me. Can you speak for a few minutes with him?” (Alex knows some English, but he 
prefers to use a translator when handling sensitive business matters.)
On the recording, Elkerton sounds initially flustered by the situation and appears to try to nip the conversation in 
the bud by saying that she has a meeting to attend. But Peter cajoles her into remaining on the line so he can relay 
Alex’s message, and the veteran Aristocrat executive gradually becomes more assertive as the half-hour conversation 
wears on. “He is talking of a deal with you where he can help you neutralize the exploit and stop the occurrences in 
the casinos,” Peter says on Alex’s behalf. “Like, he wants to be paid for it. So his question is whether you are 
willing to negotiate on that issue.”
David Brandon Geeting for WIRED
Elkerton sounds skeptical. “It is very unlikely that Aristocrat will pay for information,” she replies. “It’s simply 
not how we operate. We have developed a solution for our products moving forward and we’re comfortable with that 
solution.”
Peter counters by expressing Alex’s doubt that Aristocrat realized just how many of its machines are at risk. He 
then makes a startling new claim: Alex has cracked the PRNGs for games that run on Aristocrat’s latest slot-machine 
cabinet, known as the Helix, which is two generations more advanced than the Mark VI.
Elkerton does not dismiss the possibility outright. In fact, she says that it does at least seem plausible. The 
Helixes that Aristocrat had been shipping, she says, “do not yet contain the solution that we have implemented.” (An 
Aristocrat spokesperson stresses that “Ms. Elkerton’s comment in response to the extortionist’s cheat allegation 
against unspecified games on Helix cabinets simply acknowledged a theoretical potential.”)
Sensing that he now has the advantage, Alex instructs Peter to demand that his proposal be passed along to 
Aristocrat’s most senior decision-makers, whom he believes would accept his offer if they knew their Helixes were in 
peril. But Elkerton counters by citing not only Aristocrat’s commitment to being “truly ethical” in its dealings but 
also her fear that Alex might not be a man of his word: “I have no guarantee that Alex shuts down this crew slash 
syndicate if we were to pay him a fee, a consulting fee, whatever we want to call it.”
Before ending the call, Elkerton poses a question to Alex: Why, after many years of earning millions with his 
milking system, is he now eager to cut a deal with Aristocrat? Why is he no longer content to continue making a 
small fortune by sending his agents around the globe? “He does know that in some countries [his system] is illegal, 
and that does concern him because he does not want to be criminal,” Peter answers. “He decided it would be better 
for him to get out of the illegal field and just shut it down and get a certain payment from the company for 
consultation and the patch.”
Upon hearing that Alex’s fondest wish is to be a straight arrow, Elkerton bursts into grim laughter.
Alex waited three weeks for Aristocrat to have a change of heart, then sent Elkerton a lengthy email in which he 
detailed the specific services he could provide in exchange for a sum that ran into eight figures. He also outlined 
some of the steps he might take if Aristocrat continued to dawdle, such as sharing his vulnerability information 
with the company’s competitors so that they could secure their own machines as well as poach Aristocrat’s customers.
As in his earlier email, he offered mathematical evidence of his bona fides—in this instance a breakdown of how the 
PRNG works for a game called 50 Dragons that runs on Helix machines. The proof also included a photograph of a Helix 
machine that Alex’s organization had allegedly targeted at the Sands Macau Casino; Alex urged Elkerton to have one 
of the company’s engineers check the machine’s logs to verify his claims.
Aristocrat parsed its words carefully in response to my inquiry as to whether Alex has cracked a Helix game’s PRNG. 
“Aristocrat received information from the extortionist alleging to be proof of a cheat,” the company informed me in 
a written statement. “However we could not verify any cheat based on the information provided. Aristocrat reiterates 
that it has no evidence of any actual or potential cheat of any title other than the handful of Mark VI vintage 
titles previously reported.” (Aristocrat has informed its customers that the thousands of compromised Mark VI games 
“are no longer supportable” and urges them “to replace this old, end of life technology with new, more modern 
products.”)
It seems improbable, however, that Alex could send Aristocrat a proof that the company’s engineers would instantly 
recognize as fiction. Were he to do so, Aristocrat would have good reason to dismiss him as a charlatan whose 
threats are idle. But based on its reaction to my various inquiries, the company seems far from nonchalant about the 
Alex situation. (In response to a specific question about whether Alex’s email contained the 50 Dragons proof, a 
company spokesman said: “Aristocrat has confirmed this extortion attempt, the fact that it has been referred to the 
relevant authorities, and managed in compliance with all relevant protocols. It would be inappropriate to comment 
further.”)
After Alex shared his most recent Aristocrat PRNG proof with me, I showed it to David Ackley, a computer science 
professor at the University of New Mexico. Ackley discovered that the algorithm had a peculiar backstory.  On a 
hunch, he took some of the equation’s values that were expressed in hexadecimal format and converted them to decimal 
format. When he did, he noticed that the resulting numbers were familiar: One was an approximation of pi (31415926), 
one was an abbreviation of the mathematical constant e (271828), and one was a slightly ribald jest (69069).
By tracing those jokey references back, Ackley found that those exact numbers had also been used in a PRNG featured 
in SpaceOut, a 1988 program for the X Window System that simulated travel through a star field. When I contacted the 
author of SpaceOut, he recalled that he had cribbed his PRNG from the second volume of Donald Knuth’s The Art of 
Computer Programming, a classic of the discipline. I was able to locate that PRNG in the edition of the book that 
was published in 1981, though it may also appear in the original edition from a dozen years earlier.
This coincidence raises at least two possibilities. The first is that Alex sent Aristocrat a fake proof full of 
mathematical in-jokes and wagered that the company’s engineers would be too dense to realize that he was putting 
them on. The second is that Aristocrat has been basing some of its PRNGs, at least in part, on an algorithm that is 
at least 36 years old and which has long been in the public domain.
If the latter is the case, then Aristocrat—like all slot machine manufacturers—has a ready defense against any 
suggestion that its PRNGs are too feeble. Because government regulators must vet and approve all PRNGs before 
they’re used in casinos, those regulators are easy to blame when hackers like Alex find flaws in the code. “Every 
single Aristocrat game that is on a venue floor—regardless of where it is—has been approved by the relevant 
regulators and complies fully with the standards required at the time it was placed,” a company spokesperson told me.
Aristocrat has held fast to its refusal to negotiate with Alex, a decision that not all of its corporate peers have 
made when dealing with similar crises. In fact, plenty of companies confronted by hackers with damaging information 
have opted to play ball and transmit the requested bitcoins to their tormentor. “You might be able to live with the 
cost of paying off the lawsuits and that sort of stuff, but the potential reputational damage might be too much to 
bear,” says Steve Stone, a leader of IBM's X-Force Incident Response and Intelligence Services division, which 
advises client on how to handle cyberextortion. But he adds that those companies often rue their decision in the 
long run, since—as Tracey Elkerton implied in her phone call with Alex—black-hat hackers aren’t known for being 
merciful: “It’s not all that unusual to pay and then they come back and say, ‘Oh, now we have two things.’ And then 
it’s ‘Now we have three things.’”
Having failed to persuade Aristocrat to strike a deal, Alex is now toying with the idea of approaching IGT, another 
slot machine manufacturer; Alex claims to have recently deciphered the PRNGs for games that run on machines made by 
Atronic, an Austrian company that is now an IGT subsidiary. “I have to say they are a bit more robust [than 
Aristocrat’s] and some machines did give me the pleasure of a challenge, but they are still generally weak,” he 
boasts. “An engineer’s mind is just too linear. They don't understand the psychology of dismantling, they just don’t 
know where and how a hacker is going to strike. So they leave a number of doors open for me to enter.”
Alex also claims to be engaged in selling his milking system to interested parties. One of his customers, he says, 
was a New York-based crew of alleged Russian and Georgian mafiosi, 33 of whom were indicted in June for 
racketeering, fraud, and other crimes. According to confidential government informants, this crew, known as the 
Shulaya Enterprise, brought an Aristocrat Mark VI slot machine to a Brooklyn aparment in September 2016; four months 
later, the group began fleecing casinos in Pennsylvania by using “electronic devices and software designed to 
predict the behavior of particular models of electronic slot machines.”
When he inevitably tires of the slot-machine racket altogether, Alex is prepared to exit the industry in a blaze of 
mischief. “Sometimes I fantasize about just putting my tech out there for everyone to use,” he says. This would 
result in what he terms his “zombie apocalypse” scenario: Equipped with Alex’s information and software, both 
obtained online for free, anyone with a smartphone will be able to turn a vulnerable slot machine into a gaudily 
decorated ATM.
“Can you imagine something like that?” Alex asks. “It could uproot the entire slot machine industry. And the world 
just might become a slightly better place. Well, for most people at least.” Should that future come to pass, the 
losers will only have their mathematical sloppiness to blame.
Brendan I. Koerner (@brendankoerner) is a WIRED contributing editor and the author, most recently, of The Skies 
Belong to Us: Love and Terror in the Golden Age of Hijacking.


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Allan Davidson                                                                tel:                    +1 480 234-5978
heckerty.com — fun videos, great stories, smiling kids                        email:          alland () heckerty com
The Heckerty Company, Inc.                                                            chat:           Chat Center‌
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