by Les Cowan
David didn’t immediately reply, just took a sip of his beer and nibbled a little chunk of marinated pork that had come as a tapa with the drinks.
“You’re right; I feel exactly the same,” he eventually agreed. “But something you said earlier on the drive has been playing on my mind. What if PGC actually does have connections inside the police force? What if it is a people-trafficking, prostitution thing and there are those in positions of power who may have partaken and have an interest in the principal players not being brought to book? Let’s just imagine a worst-case scenario – that Charlie Thompson or even somebody even more senior likes a bit on the side and now sees himself in danger of exposure if PGC goes up in smoke. The more I think about what you said in the case conference, the more sense it seems to make. He was extremely reluctant to consider another explanation for Mike’s death and there was the delay in getting the financial crime team on the case, so that by the time they were involved the money had been moved. And what if someone deliberately tipped them off that I was going to be at my flat at a certain time and that might be their last chance before the safe house, then here? I’m not saying Charlie Thompson – I don’t know who – but if your theory is correct then it would have to be him or somebody senior to him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a theory,” Gillian answered slowly. “For some reason I was just a bit uneasy about saying where we were going. Not sure why; it wasn’t really a thought-out thing. And in order to justify that I just strung a bunch of facts together that could be interpreted in various ways. It wasn’t as fully formed in my mind as you might think – or compared with what you’ve just said. But I can see where you’re coming from.”
“Where’s it all going?”
“Well, if you’re right, then we’re in bigger trouble than I’d thought.”
“Throughout the flight and even when we landed in Santiago, I was thinking, thank goodness that’s all over. It’s surely just a matter of sweeping it all up now, then things can go back to normal and we can get on with our lives. But if what we’re saying adds up, then who knows? It could mean we’re in the firing line from more than just the obvious bad guys.”
Gillian caught the waiter’s eye and ordered two more cañas. The evening light was beginning to fade. A makeshift five-a-side football space had been put together not far away using plywood sheets to keep the ball roughly in play and a dozen or so eight- to ten-year-olds were going at it full tilt. A group of girls the same age were chasing each other around on skateboards and roller blades.
“Do you know Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds?” David asked out of the blue.
“A bit,” Gillian replied. “I’m not really a prog rocker but I could stand an hour in the company of Justin Hayward. Why?”
“There’s a line in the narration where Richard Burton talks about how safe and tranquil everything seemed just when humanity was on the edge of extinction. That’s the feeling I’m getting, like I want to think it’s all over, that everything’ll work out fine. But there’s this nagging doubt at the back of my mind that says it won’t. That we’ve got a lot to go through yet before this is done.”
“So what do we do now?”
“I don’t know. For me, I think the first thing is to just be very clear about who our friends are, who the enemy is, and who we’re not sure of. Then we work with our friends and keep clear of those we’re not absolutely sure we can trust.”
Perhaps it was the cold beer or a slight breeze that had sprung up, but Gillian felt a shiver sweep over her.
“Who do you trust?” she asked.
“Number one – you, of course,” David replied. “Sam, Juan, actually Spade, I think; in the police I’m just not sure.”
“Did you notice the guy that did the presentation on trafficking, McIntosh? He gave me his card just as we were leaving. You know, he was the only one that spoke in that meeting that I really felt comfortable with.”
“Agreed,” David said. “So maybe McIntosh in the police. Anyway, drink up. I think we’re safe here at least. I have plans for Sunday lunch but we’ll need to book.”
DI Thompson pushed open the gents toilet door just down from his office, looking forward to a moment of blissful relief. He’d been stuck in another stupid, pointless training session for the past two hours with too much coffee going in and no opportunity for anything out. Once he stood up it hit him full force.
“Ohhh,” he said, letting out an involuntary gasp of pleasure.
“All right, Charlie?” said a voice next to him.
“Oh, didn’t see you there, sir,” Thompson answered.
“Forget the sir; we’re in the cludgie.”
“Fair enough.”
There was a moment of silence as both men enjoyed the feeling of not having to hold it in any longer.
“What an utter waste of time. I do not need a teenager telling me to bend my legs when I’m lifting a box of files,” the “sir” remarked.
“I’m glad it’s not just me then.”
“Far from it, let me assure you. Anyway, on a more important topic, how’s it going?’
“How’s what going?” Thompson answered guardedly.
“Don’t be a smart ass. The PGC investigation.”
“Oh, as well as can be expected. A few setbacks but I think we’ll get it wrapped up soon enough.”
“And what exactly would you term a setback then?”
“The cash disappearing, the church closing, the principals doing a runner. That sort of thing.”
“Oh, I see. Well, here’s what I’d call a setback. That we have no idea where David Hidalgo is, that his tame hacker who seems to knock spots off our guys wants nothing to do with us, and that Sandy Benedetti insists on telling us his life story instead of maintaining a respectful silence as his lawyers have in vain been suggesting. And another setback: I hear that some fairly important papers have gone missing. Two documents, to be precise. Have you heard of the White List and the Black List? No? Well let me enlighten you. These moronic plonkers – for want of a better description – thought it was a good idea to commit to paper a list of important and valued customers along with their preferred choice of company and preferential terms. Instead of keeping such information safer than Fort Knox in an encrypted file with a password longer than the Police Federation’s constitution, they decided that for ease of use they would keep it on a sheet of A4 in a filing cabinet. Along with this interesting and highly readable list they had a second page called the Black List. This apparently held the names of those less in favour. ‘Mike H’ at the top, I’ve been told, with a red line through his name. You’ll never guess who came next. So these are setbacks. And when you say wrapped up, what might you mean by that?”
“Well, I suppose finding the cash and the principals.”
“D’you know, Charlie, I’m not entirely sure we’re on the same planet. The cash, I grant you, but has it not occurred to you what happens when these guys get to court and are looking for reduced sentences? Who else do you suppose might go down with the sinking ship? And if our young lady friends disappear entirely that might not be a bad thing either. Do you get my drift, Charlie, or have you not been paying attention?”
“Of course I know what you mean; I’m not stupid. But as far as I’m aware it’s all pseudonyms and deniable. A couple of hoodlums could name anyone they liked. Without proof it’s an allegation, that’s all.”
“That’s a remarkably optimistic viewpoint, if I might say so. One broken link in the chain, Charlie. That’s all it takes – one broken link. Or one wee linnet that feels like singing. Then ‘Tam, ah Tam, ye’ll get yir farin’ in hell they’ll roast ye like a herrin’, or words to that effect. I think you’ll find that there are a few Tams in this town that aren’t planning a holiday in hell. And some of them have been in touch with me, in forceful terms. Your job is to keep names out of the public eye. How our mutual friends clear up after themselves is their own business – tragic and unfortunate, but less tragic and unf
ortunate than some other outcomes we can imagine. That clear? Ok. Well get to it, laddie.”
Chapter 20
MINSK
Andrei hated driving any distance on the poorly maintained Belarusian roads. It was Sunday so the roads might be quieter but he would probably still spend two hours doing twenty-five kilometres per hour behind a tractor hauling turnips. Nevertheless, he considered it wise to meet Rudi in person. They had been doing business for almost eight years and Rudi had always proved reliable, efficient, and on time. Not cheap, but then what he was providing was unique and worth every rouble, in particular the access to police computers with details of forthcoming operations. So, when it was cloudy, Andrei, Tati, and their various young apprentices would lie low and catch up on the admin. When the clouds had passed, normal service could resume. That kept them out of trouble and out of jail and kept Rudi as what Andrei liked to call a “preferred supplier”. Actually, he was one of very few suppliers with that level of access in the entire country. Hacking was not a career with courses at the National Technical University, a published body of good practice, and weekly updates in popular magazines. It was something more akin to being a stock market investor or a poker player. You brought your own talents to the game, and though you might learn from others you kept the secret of your success to yourself. That seemed to be particularly true of Rudi, who communicated in single words, did not seem connected to any hacker community like Anonymous or Chaos, and did not encourage contact between his various clients. When Andrei had first approached him and asked if there was anyone he could speak to who would vouch for the quality of his work, Rudi had replied simply, “No.” “No what?” Andrei had asked. “No there isn’t anyone or no there isn’t anyone I can speak to?” “The latter. Take it or leave it.” He had decided to take a risk and took it and had been very happy with the service, but still not one whit more knowledgeable about the enigmatic Rudi. Was that his real name (unlikely), was he actually German (maybe), was he even male (probably but not even that was certain)? Now, given the urgency of what he was looking for he felt a meeting was preferable to a series of one-word emails, hence bumping along behind a tractor on the road to Minsk.
Rudi had only agreed to meet in a public place. They decided on Zerno near Nyezalyezhnastsi Prospect. Rudi had said to take the corner table next to the window. Andrei arrived on time but realized as he went in that he had no idea what Rudi even looked like. He needn’t have worried. The guy sitting at the corner table next to the window looked like an alumnus of Kraftwerk. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, black pencil tie, and had dark hair slicked down to one side. Either Rudi was indeed very German or doing a good impression. This fitted well with his efficiency and economy of expression but wasn’t what Andrei had expected as typical hacker style. Andrei nodded across the room, collected an Americano at the counter, and sat down. He tried some small talk but found it ignored so went straight to the main event.
“Rudi, I have something I want you to do for me – not a favour, a paid job. A friend of mine is in trouble and needs some help. That means I need to find out exactly where she is, what the circumstances are, and also I need to get in touch with a man she thinks she can trust.”
Rudi took a sip of his coffee.
“Tati is in Edinburgh,” he said without emotion. “She is working for PGC, run by Max and Mikhail. Unless things change she probably has about a week to live, along with all the rest of the girls. I don’t communicate with her but I know the circumstances.”
Andrei was stunned. He managed to lay his coffee down without spilling it but took some time to find his tongue.
“How…” he began. “How do you know it was Tati I was going to ask you about?”
Rudi shrugged.
“It’s not difficult,” he said. “You told me you wanted help to find a girl in the West. You worked with Tati. She left six months ago to travel to the West. Besides, PGC are my clients.”
“Who are PGC?”
“The front for an enterprise run by Maxim Blatov and Mikhail Lubchenco. The front is a church but PGC is a sex business. Blatov and Lubchenco are Belarusian citizens but operate in Edinburgh. I provide informatic services for PGC.”
“I’ve just heard from Tati. She says she is one of a group of girls controlled by a man called Max. Basically they are slaves working as prostitutes.”
“That is probably quite an accurate description.”
“And you work for these guys?”
“They pay me, same as you. They run an illegal organization, same as you. Some people benefit and some suffer because of what they sell, same as you. It’s business.”
Andrei took a deep breath. What Rudi was saying was true from one point of view, but there was no way he could see himself in the same category as what Tati had told him about. People were free to buy and use his drugs if they wanted. Nobody was a prisoner or coerced. He paid strict attention to quality control and avoided high-risk substances. He even provided safe use guidelines, and nobody was about to be murdered. But he could see how a narrow definition might make things look. He decided not to apply to Rudi’s sense of decency; he would just keep things on a strictly business footing.
“Ok,” he said, “I hear what you’re saying. Well, regardless of the rights and wrongs, it looks like Tati is in trouble, and the other girls with her. I want to get her out. Can you help me?”
Rudi sipped his black Russian tea and lit a Camel cigarette.
“This presents something of a conflict of interest for me,” he said. “I have worked for PGC longer than I’ve worked for you. Normally I wouldn’t be able to do anything for you; however, in this case I owe a favour to a friend who has approached me over the same issue. I am therefore willing to assist.”
Andrei was stuck for words again.
“Someone else has contacted you about Tati?”
“No. About the behaviour of PGC.”
“Who?”
“A hacker called Spade.”
“Spade?”
“In English it is an agricultural implement for making holes and uncovering things, I believe. Spade is from Edinburgh. He was approached by a local individual trying to resolve a suspicious death by hanging. The whole affair depended on child pornography images found on the dead man’s laptop, which were seen by police as explaining an apparent suicide. Spade was asked about a memory stick the deceased had been given shortly before and found that it had installed a backdoor trojan. The trojan was designed by me; Spade recognized my trademarks. It gave my clients, PGC, control over the individual in question’s computer, which led to the installation of a set of image files. This was intended as a cover for their intention to murder the man by hanging. Spade was subsequently asked by Scottish police to help them resolve the matter by finding out where the trojan had come from. He declined and opted to contact me instead by way of a friendly warning. We have worked on one or two projects in the past so I am familiar with his skills. I appreciate it when a colleague advises me of potential legal complications. And I did not give permission for PGC to use the downloaded files in this manner. The fact that they are selling sex in Edinburgh is really none of my business. But for the reasons mentioned, in this case I am willing to intervene.”
Rudi took a long drag on his cigarette and gazed out of the window. Andrei was used to operating on the wrong side of the law but this guy was something else. The certain death of one individual and the possible death of others did not seem to move him at all. He spoke about conflicts of interest when asked to intervene to save lives. Andrei guessed that people with the skills to work as successful hackers probably were a bit out to the left field, but Rudi was coming from a different galaxy. It sounded like he was agreeing to help and that was something. Maybe the rest was none of Andrei’s affair.
“So I’m not in Edinburgh and I doubt I could do much good by being there. But Tati has sent me the name of someone she thought could help. She doesn’t know the full name though – just David H. and the fact t
hat he is a pastor. Or it could be that his full name is David H. Pastor. What she wrote me didn’t seem entirely clear.”
“The first is correct,” Rudi stated, like a teacher marking a not particularly bright student’s work. “The name is David Hidalgo. He is pastor of a church in Edinburgh. He is the one who gave Spade the memory stick. The man who died was a friend of his. I have also had some interaction with his computer. My information is that police have been dragging their heels on following up the complaint and the death and have even allowed the bulk of the capital held by PGC to be moved outwith their jurisdiction. PGC will have to close down in the city but the police have an interest in not pursuing the investigation – too rigorously, shall we say.”
“Why?”
“Because senior police officers are frequent users of PGC’s services of course. As are members of parliament and the legal professions, etc. It’s normal in any large capital city.”
“So what has Spade asked you to do?”
“Deprive PGC of service. Bring some of their connections to, shall we say, a wider public. Trace the missing cash. As an acknowledgment of Spade’s role in this I am willing to provide this information. Now you want your girl out. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes. No. I want Tati out but I want all the girls out. I don’t care about the police and who’s been jiving on the wrong dance floor. As regards the money, again, I don’t care, but PGC shouldn’t keep it. In fact, it might be quite appropriate if it were redistributed to more deserving parties.”
“Yes,” Rudi mused. “I suspected that might be part of the deal so I’ve set wheels in motion. £20 million of PGC’s account has already been moved to a safe holding account from which I can distribute it elsewhere in due course.”
