Deep Black ns-7

by Andy McNab

  Next, I dipped into the sex-offenders register for New York and neighbouring states, an online service to comply with ‘Megan’s Law’. Jerry had a clean sheet. Did his story about moving quite recently to DC stack up? And when exactly had he moved? Why did this all matter anyway? I knew the answer, of course, but was trying to avoid it, hoping I’d find something that would make me not want to go with him.

  I sat and thought a bit. I was sure I’d seen a VCR in the apartment. I went to infospace.com and hit the link called ‘near an address’. I keyed in ‘video store’, then Jerry’s address. Video Stock was the nearest video rental place, just 0.2 miles away. I went back to Google and entered ‘Video Stock + DC’. There were twenty-four branches. I picked up the phone and dialled the one that looked furthest away.

  A young guy answered. ‘Video Stock, this is Phil, how may I help you?’

  I gave him my best-mate voice. ‘Yeah, hi, Phil – listen, somebody in your store was really helpful to me a few days ago. Fantastic service. Tallish guy, brown hair?’

  ‘There’s a lot of us here.’

  ‘Well, you know, I want to write to the manager about it. Doesn’t happen very much, these days, that kind of service. What’s the manager’s name?’

  ‘Mike Mills.’

  ‘That’s great. Listen, I might write to your headquarters too. What’s your store number?’

  ‘One thirty-six.’

  ‘That’s great. And you’re Phil, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Phil, you’ve been a real help. You take care now.’

  I put the phone down and dialled again, this time to the store near Jerry.

  ‘Video Stock, this is Steffi, how can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, Steffi, this is Mike Mills. I’m the manager at Renton, store one thirty-six. Listen, I could use your help. Our computers are down and we have one of your customers here who wants to rent but he doesn’t have his card with him. Could you just verify his details for me?’

  ‘Sure. Go right ahead.’

  I gave her Jerry’s name and address, and Steffi checked her computer. ‘Yeah, I got him.’ Then, without me even asking, she gave me his account number.

  ‘No problems with him? No late returns?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did he open the account?’

  ‘September.’

  ‘This September just gone?’

  ‘Yep.’

  While I was on a roll, I thought I might as well push my luck. ‘OK, I’ll sign him up by hand here and enter it in the database when the computer’s back up. He wants to charge this to the card he uses at your store – hey, yeah, one moment, folks – sorry, Steffi, I’m holding up a whole line of customers here. Read me the credit-card number and expiration date?’

  And she did. The weakest link in any security chain is always a human being.

  It might not be so easy coming by the next piece of information. I wanted to check that Jerry owned the Jeep, but I didn’t know the registration: all I knew was that the Cherokee had looked about three years old. I couldn’t just phone the Department of Motor Vehicles and ask. At least, not directly.

  I went to docusearch.com and akiba.com, but a plate check would take one business day. I went to the DMV site for Washington DC, and checked their criteria for releasing information. They protected the privacy of individuals by closely adhering to the Driver’s Privacy Protection Act. Therefore, they would release driver’s records only to the following requesters: driver, with proof of identity; driver’s representative (for example, a spouse), with written authorization from the driver and a copy of the driver’s proof of identification, bearing a discernible signature; law-enforcement representatives, with documentation showing driver’s involvement in an investigation; government entities, as part of an established activity requiring records (for example, security clearances, investigations, and recruitment); attorneys, with written authorization from their client to obtain records; individuals or entities requesting information through the Freedom of Information Act; or insurance company representatives, with written authorization from the driver as part of an established investigation. That last one would do. The only problem was, requesters had to produce the client’s name, date of birth, and driver’s licence or social-security number – and they had to produce it in person.

  When people don’t have a reason to be suspicious, it’s easy to gain their trust. Next thing I did, therefore, was a Google search for Chrysler and made a note of the head-office telephone number and address, and the same details for dealers in Buffalo and DC. I then did another to get the number for the Motor Vehicles Department in DC. After a five-minute wait – during which I was told I was a valued customer, my call was important to them and I was moving up the queue – I finally got through to a human.

  ‘Hi, I’m calling from Kane Doyle, Chrysler dealership in Buffalo, New York. We got a vehicle recall problem with some 2001 Jeep Cherokees, and I have an ownership issue I hope you can help me with. See, we have a customer just moved from Buffalo to DC and I’m trying to work out if the recall is our responsibility or DC’s. I’ll give you his address, if you could just verify ownership?’

  ‘I need some sort of—’

  ‘No problem, I’ll give you the number here, Kane Doyle, Delaware Avenue, and you can call us back?’

  ‘No, that’s OK, I guess. What’re the details?’ Nothing like the threat of extra workload to get a civil servant to change his mind.

  I gave him Jerry’s name and address. He hit a few keys. ‘Yeah, Jeep Cherokee.’

  ‘Year of registration?’

  ‘2001.’

  ‘That’s right. Tell me, is he still on Buffalo plates, or has he reregistered for DC? If he’s switched plates I’ll get the DC guys to deal with it.’

  ‘Still on Buffalo plates.’

  ‘Ah, well, guess it’s my baby, then. Look, thanks for your help.’

  It was that simple. Jerry’s car checked out.

  I sat back and took a long gulp of monkey. The next part of the session was going to be very interesting and quite a lot dirtier.

  21

  Seven twenty. It would be dark soon. For once it was going to be an advantage that I hadn’t done any washing in ages.

  I picked my keys and cell off the kitchen worktop. As I turned towards the window and caught sight of his office on the other side of the Potomac, I thought about Ezra.

  I thumbed in his voicemail, my very own 911 number he’d given me in case I needed some emergency shrinkage. I couldn’t be arsed to go into the living room for the landline, and that, I thought, was a good sign of normality returning. If I’d still been his patient, he would have been proud of me.

  Still looking out over the river, I pictured him doing the business with yet another in the long line of George’s fruits, going through the same fucking pantomime. ‘We must have complete trust between us. Blah-blah-fucking-blah.’

  The voicemail gave me about a hundred options before I could talk. ‘It’s Nick. You probably know this already – George will explain if you don’t – but I won’t be coming any more. You’re right about the suicide thing. I won’t be taking the pills and jumping off the bridge, so no need to worry. And thanks, I suppose.’

  I wasn’t too sure how that felt but, fuck it, no more Ezra.

  Thirty minutes later I was on the Metro, heading back to Chevy Chase. In a carrier-bag I had a pair of washing-up gloves and a torch.

  The road was just as busy when I got out as it had been when Jerry waved me off, but now it was dark. The street-lights glinted on the slowly moving traffic. Washington’s worker-bees had their heads down determinedly as they made their way home. Most of them just wanted to close the front door, get the telly on and throw something into the microwave. It was etched in their faces.

  Jerry’s apartment block was easy to find. Just before I got to it I took a turning to the left that brought me round the back, into their communal garden. I sat on a bench as i
f I belonged there, a resident taking some air before the microwave went ping. I looked along the line of windows on the first floor. Two had no blinds or curtains, very bright white walls and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I could even see Chloë’s mobile turning just above the window-ledge.

  The door into the hallway was open. There was no movement. I minced round the rear of the building and found the unlit admin area, where the entire apartment block’s garbage was stored in big dumpsters, awaiting collection.

  I put on the rubber gloves and switched on the torch. It had been years since I’d done any dumpster diving. I always got out of one of these things smelling like shit, sometimes real shit, but it was worth it for what you could learn about a target if you were prepared to delve among the banana peel, coffee grounds and the odd dead cat in a bin-liner. Most people don’t give much thought to the letters, phone bills, credit-card statements, medical prescription bottles and even workplace memos they discard.

  The first thing I looked for was some cardboard boxes. I pulled them out and set them aside. If anyone challenged me, I’d say that a friend was moving and I was just looking for boxes to help him pack. If they persisted, I’d come clean and say I’d thrown my wedding ring in the trash in the heat of the moment, but now I’d patched things up and wanted it back before my wife found out. With luck, they’d even help me look.

  People like me weren’t the only ones with their heads in trash cans. Police departments around the country routinely trawled through garbage, and every kind of criminal from Mafia dons to petty embezzlers had had their convictions based, at least in part, on evidence gathered from their rubbish. Intelligence agencies had been doing it for years. After the Iranian revolution in ’79, the new government had bands of students gluing together all the documents shredded by the previous lot. It took them four years.

  I did a quick sift first, checking all see-through bags for disposable nappies or other baby items. Then I moved to black plastic ones, opening them one by one. An hour later, I found a bag that had come from Jerry and Renee’s apartment. There was a letter from a clinic, saying that the whole family were now registered, and their medical cards were enclosed.

  I went back to the bench with wet milk stains and onion skin on my knees. Still no obvious movement in the apartment. It was nine thirty. I got my cell out, and Jerry’s card.

  At that moment, they both appeared at the window. Renee leaned forward and smiled, presumably checking the carrycot. When she turned to Jerry, the smile evaporated. They seemed to be in mid-argument. Maybe Renee had told Jerry about our meeting. I hit the cell keys.

  Three rings and Renee picked up.

  ‘Hi, it’s Nick. Is Jerry there?’

  She looked taken aback. ‘I’ll put him on.’

  She handed him the phone.

  ‘Hey . . .’ It was his happy voice.

  ‘Listen, I just want to say it was really great seeing you and the family today. I will think about the trip, OK?’

  ‘That’s great news. I’ll meet you in London?’

  ‘Hold up, I haven’t said I’m going yet. I’ll give you a call in the morning. I’ve got one or two things to sort out.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll be in all tomorrow. I’ll wait by the phone. Good things, Nick, these are good things.’

  ‘One question.’

  ‘Sure, Nick, anything.’

  ‘How are you so sure your man’s in Baghdad? How do you know what he’s up to?’

  There was the smallest hesitation. ‘It’s like, I have a friend, a source, I guess. He’s on one of the nationals. I can’t give you his name . . . If anyone knew . . . You know how it is. But he is very definitely on our team, Nick. He’ll try to help us once we get there.’

  ‘Fair one. Later.’ I closed the phone down but kept my eyes on the flat. He was smiling, and so, soon, was Renee. They kissed and hugged.

  Jerry went over and picked up Chloë, held her in the air and flew her about. Then he brought her down towards his face and blew on her stomach, just like I used to do to Kelly when she was little.

  I sat there for a while, just watching them do family stuff, and then I went back to what I laughingly called home to learn more about my new employer.

  22

  Hot water splashed over my body, and I lathered myself from head to foot for the first time in weeks. Judging by the colour of the stuff that was filling the shower cubicle, it was a wonder I’d been let on the Metro. Ezra deserved a medal for making it through a whole session without reaching for the smelling-salts.

  With yet another mug of monkey at my elbow, I sat at the PC with a towel round me, hair drying, face freshly shaven.

  The Deep Web is a vast store of searchable databases that are publicly accessible, but for technical reasons not indexed by major search engines. Google or Lycos can tell you what the page might be about, but cannot access the content.

  When I was shown how to access the Deep Web, the instructor told me searching on the internet was a bit like dragging a net across the surface of an ocean. A great deal may be caught in it, but there are still whole trenchloads of information lurking deep on the ocean floor.

  The intelligence community has used BrightPlanet’s DQM (deep query manager) for years to identify, retrieve, classify and organize both deep and surface content. Its information store was five hundred times larger than that of the world wide web, according to the expert on late-night cable TV – 500 billion individual documents compared to the one billion of the surface web. There are more than two hundred thousand deep-web sites. Sixty of the largest contain more than forty times the information of the entire surface web.

  Even search engines with the largest number of web pages indexed, such as Google or Northern Light, each index no more than sixteen per cent of the surface web. Most internet searchers are therefore only scanning one of the three thousand pages available. Or, to put it another way, once I’d logged on to brightplanet.com I had a long night ahead.

  Three hours later, after exploring databases that, among other things, catalogued all of Jerry’s published work, I checked my new Hotmail box. Both sets of results were in. I printed them and cross-checked each result against the other.

  It seemed that Jeral Abdul al-Hadi had moved round quite a bit in the last ten years. I had eleven addresses in front of me, complete with telephone numbers, as well as the names and telephone numbers of his previous neighbours. If the address was an apartment, I’d been given names and numbers for most of the block.

  Marriage records showed that Jerry had married Renee in Buffalo in July 2002. The bride’s maiden name was Metter.

  I phoned a couple of the numbers at random. After apologizing for calling so late, I told them I was trying to get Jerry but his phone seemed to be out of order. It was an emergency, could they go get him? Very pissed off ex-neighbours told me Jerry had moved away. I did my idiot bit, which came very naturally, and moved on.

  Jerry checked out. I wasn’t too sure if it was good or bad news; I supposed I’d decide when I got to Baghdad.

  What about Nuhanovic? Google threw up only a few links. I picked one which took me to a site that published translations of pieces from Pakistani newspapers, talking about the Coke boycott.

  It seemed the journalist liked thirty-five-year-old Hasan Nuhanovic, proudly endorsing him as one of the Muslim world’s most progressive and revolutionary thinkers. The Pakistani rumour mill had it that Nuhanovic was in the country, wanting to teach them a little US history. In 1766, the Americans had discovered a political weapon without which the revolution might not have been successful: the consumer boycott.

  Even before America was a nation, I was told, it was already a society of consumers, two and a half million strong, scattered along eighteen hundred miles of eastern coastline. But the colonists had little in common besides a weakness for what Samuel Adams called the baubles of Britain.

  In 1765, the Stamp Act had imposed a duty on papers used in everyday business and legal transacti
ons. In retaliation, merchants in at least nine towns voted to refuse all British imports. Benjamin Franklin was summoned to London, where Parliament demanded that his people paid the taxes. Franklin reminded the House that his people were huge consumers of British goods, but this lucrative spending habit should not be taken for granted: the Americans could either produce anything of necessity themselves, or quite simply do without. A month later, the Stamp Act was repealed, and trade in British goods continued to thrive.

  Just two years later, the British had forgotten their lesson. Parliament imposed the Townsend Revenue Act, taxing tea, glass, paper, anything essential. ‘Franklin’s threat became a reality,’ the piece said. ‘The boycott became a public movement. Just as important, it allowed women, small-town dwellers and the poor to become political activists. In Boston in 1770, hundreds of women signed petitions saying that they wouldn’t use tea, and of course they eventually had a big party with a few boxes of the stuff out in the harbour.’

  Cities issued detailed lists of all items that were taboo. Voluntary associations formed in citizens’ support groups to make sure nobody was buying the boycotted goods, and attacking those who did. The Brits were being attacked where it hurt, in their pockets. America was becoming united against the mother country, and it very soon became the fashion not to buy British. It didn’t matter if American goods were inferior; it didn’t even matter if they didn’t exist. It was a change of mindset.

  And this, apparently, was exactly what Hasan Nuhanovic was trying to achieve: to encourage people to retake control of their own destinies from those who thought they had the right to dictate to other cultures.

  That was it. Never any recent picture of him, never any interviews. No wonder he was camera-shy. As well as being a target for every religious fundamentalist and political extremist going, it seemed he hadn’t exactly endeared himself to the powerful multinationals either. In a piece in Newsweek, one reporter who’d spent several months failing to get an interview had written: ‘You could say it was like getting blood out of a stone – if only you could get past the legions of gatekeepers and through the impenetrable smokescreen of security. Compared with Hasan Nuhanovic, Osama bin Laden’s a media tart.’