Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  Intercepts were usually handled by the National Crime Agency, account monitoring by financial crime units, and phone data by a single point of contact for each force or agency. Who could access all those disparate agencies?

  Who had the opportunity to access the SD card, which should have been locked away in a police store? How was it wiped clean? Police stores were very secure, but transit storage outside of office hours? Not so much. It would probably have been locked in the custody office where anyone could have got to it, or maybe in the CID office with the investigating officer prior to it being reviewed. Again, anyone could have got to it.

  Also, to sort everything against him in a matter of just twenty-four hours was seriously impressive and realistically unheard of, so whoever it was definitely had influence and ability.

  All-in-all, Tom couldn’t come up with any cogent theory other than that it had to have begun with Adebayo and the Brankos. So that was where he’d start. One of them must have contacted the corrupt official, and that was his one opportunity: if Mike Brogan and the CIA had the resources Tom imagined they had.

  A quiet knock on the door pulled Tom from his thoughts. He checked his watch: exactly seven o’clock.

  He held the Sig in his right hand, concealed behind his back. He didn’t use the peephole in the door. If the caller was an enemy, the light shift in the peephole prism would show them exactly where his head was, enabling them to make a very effective assassination by a single shot through the door.

  Instead, he unlocked the door then quickly backed into the room, ducking into the bathroom to the right.

  ‘Wait there,’ he called, his grip firm on the Sig.

  A lightly-accented female voice replied, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Pet?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Yes. Mike sent me,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Come in.’ He didn’t move from the bathroom and instead aimed the Sig at the door.

  The door swung open and a small woman slowly walked in, carrying a heavy bag over her shoulder and a rucksack on her back.

  ‘My hands are up, I’m not armed.’

  Tom fixed the Sig on her. She was in her late twenties, of slight build, with short, choppy, auburn hair. She wore geek-chic spectacles and was dressed in a funky style with her slim frame clothed in green combat trousers, a denim jacket, and Converse All-Star sneakers.

  ‘Please don’t shoot me, Tom. Mike asked me to come help you out and these bags are really heavy,’ she said, giving him a shy smile.

  ‘Walk over and sit on the armchair,’ said Tom, lowering the pistol but keeping it by his side, following her as she walked past the bed and sat calmly on the chair.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Mike Brogan, CIA Section Chief in Brussels with responsibility for counter-terror liaison in France, Belgium, Netherlands, and Germany. He asked me to help you out with IT, phone interrogation, communications, and shit like that. He loves you because you pulled his ass outta the fire a few years ago. His words, not mine, by the way.’ Her smile widened. ‘Anything else, Tom, or can I relax? I’d love a cup of tea. That’s what you English do, isn’t it, in times of stress?’ Her English was faultless, with a mixed German and American accent.

  ‘I’m not English,’ Tom said, tucking the Sig in his waistband.

  ‘I know. You were a Bosnian refugee. Orphaned in London, brought up in Scotland, army at nineteen, and then police. You’ve been a bit busy, I hear.’ She smiled once more. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I can find out anything about anyone; it’s a gift and why the CIA pays me.’ Her smile widened a little more. ‘Now, how about that tea? I can see a kettle from here.’ She nodded at the desk.

  ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘Just milk.’

  As Tom made the tea he asked, ‘So how did you end up working for the CIA?’

  ‘I don’t, officially. In reality, it was that or they’d put my ass in jail. They caught me looking at the CIA mainframe when I was younger. I just wanted to see if I could breach their security. I got in quite easily, but in those days I wasn’t good enough to get out again without getting caught. They traced me to my parents’ house in Germany and they were so impressed that, rather than jail, they offered me a job.’

  Tom stood to make the tea, tipping a mini capsule of milk in each. Handing Pet a cup of the scalding tea, he said, ‘Pet?’ a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘Petra. But that sounds like a dog’s name.’

  ‘So you decided on ‘Pet’ instead?’

  ‘I know, it’s supposed to be ironic,’ she smiled. She sipped her tea and pulled a face. ‘I hate UHT milk. Why can’t hotels do proper milk?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Pet smiled again, looking directly at him with eyes that sparkled like jewels. ‘So what do you need, Tom?’

  ‘I need a locked iPhone interrogating and some photographs putting through facial recognition software for a start. Can you do that?’

  Pet gave him an almost offended look. ‘Is that all? That’s child’s play.’

  ‘For starters, we’ll see after the phone has been looked at. I managed to get a brief look before it locked, and it seemed all the history had been erased.’

  ‘I doubt it’s fully erased. I can probably recover most of it, so let’s start with that. I’m the CIA’s most prized deniable asset.’ She smiled at her own self-confidence.

  She heaved up her bag and extracted a slightly battered-looking laptop and a small vulcanised case. Tom was certainly no computer expert, but the laptop looked quite old and was festooned with various stickers.

  ‘I expected more modern tech,’ Tom said, slightly puzzled at the archaic-looking machine.

  ‘Detective, this is state-of-the-art, trust me. I built it myself with the help of some of the finest tech minds in the CIA. Don’t let appearances fool you.’ She opened the other case and pulled out a small, nondescript metallic box which she attached to the laptop using a cable, before plugging both machines into the wall socket.

  ‘Okay, where’s this phone you want looking at?’

  Tom produced it from the bag on the bed.

  ‘It’s been on airplane mode since I relieved it from the owner. It’s fingerprint and passcode protected as well. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Please, Mr Novak, all this talk of end-to-end encryption only goes so far. I can get into any phone. Handset manufacturers won’t admit there are back doors into the phones but, if they want to trade in the US and lots of other countries, they sometimes make exceptions.’

  Tom tossed her the iPhone which she caught with ease. As she switched it on, she said, ‘I’m going to assume that there is a remote wipe enabled on the phone so, if we disable airplane mode, all data will be wiped. If we had a faraday cage, we could disable it, but I don’t see the risk is worth it. There may be all sorts I can learn with the handset in its current state.’ She connected the phone to a cable and pressed a few keys on her laptop.

  ‘Done,’ she said after about thirty seconds. ‘That’s the contents of the phone downloaded onto the hard drive. I’ve enabled it to recover deleted items, so it shouldn’t be a problem. I have e-discovery software, so we can run lots of cross-checking to come up with any links.’

  ‘How the hell did you break the password that quickly?’

  ‘I didn’t need to.’

  Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Can I see what’s on there?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ she said. Her fingers blurred over the keyboard with practised ease. As he moved behind her to see the screen more clearly, Tom noticed a small tattoo of three stars below her left ear.

  ‘He’s been careful,’ she said. ‘There’s very little on here. I suspect it’s recently been purchased. Hold on.’ Her fingers danced across the keyboard again.

  ‘Okay, the phone went live two days ago. No calls, no SMS, no social media accounts. I’ve recovered two deleted messages and two deleted calls. One from a landline; one from a mobile. The messages are from UK-based cell phones. I’ll retrieve them.’


  More tapping of keys. ‘Okay, there was a call from this number this morning at 0700 hours lasting two minutes.’ She pointed at the number on a chart on the screen.

  ‘I recognise that number,’ said Tom, shocked. ‘That’s the Met switchboard number at Scotland Yard. Can we find out extension numbers or where it came from?’

  ‘Not from this phone. I’d need to hack into the systems and, even then, there’s no guarantee.’

  Tom clenched his fists, ‘Okay. Carry on.’

  ‘A ninety second call was received from a cellphone number ending in 219 at 1105 hours. We can check these out once we’ve finished the download.’

  Tom nodded as she continued.

  ‘Okay. Two SMS messages: one sent at 0820 hours from this handset to 219 saying, “Card obtained, I’m ready when you hear”. The next one was at 0835 hours which includes a photo of you, your name, date of birth and an address in Camden. See?’ She pointed at the laptop screen.

  Tom was shocked to see his warrant card photo staring from the screen at him. It was also disconcerting to see his home address in the text. Jesus, how much influence did these people have?

  It made some degree of sense. ‘Martin’ received a call from someone at Scotland Yard at 0700 hours, possibly arranging to get the warrant card. He then sent a message at 0820 hours, seemingly once he’d got the warrant card, saying he was ready to go, and received a reply at 0835 hours with photographs and details of Tom’s movements.

  The crucial call was then made at 1105 hours after he received the call from Neil Wilkinson about the threat.

  The key was the phone number: who had 219? That person was at the centre of everything, coordinating the activity against Tom.

  He looked at Pet. ‘Can you get me phone call data for that mobile? I need in-and-out call and message data with cell sites.’

  ‘I reckon so, but it will cost you something to eat. I’m starving,’ Pet said with a grin.

  ‘In a minute,’ said Tom. ‘Can you overlay GPS data for the phone with the calls?’

  Pet’s fingers flashed across the keyboard again, pausing only to brush her fringe to one side, a look of fierce concentration across her fine features.

  ‘Here,’ she said, pointing to the screen, where a map showed the route the phone’s GPS function had tracked since being switched on. The highlighted route first appeared close to City Road in Central London, adjacent to the flat shared by the Brankos. The first call at 0700 hours was received there almost as soon as the phone was switched on. The phone remained static for a while before going to Victoria Embankment and into New Scotland Yard. It remained static before sending the message saying the card had been obtained at 0820 hours.

  It moved again just after the text attaching the photograph of Tom was received at 0835 hours. The GPS signal then travelled north towards Camden, crossing Blackfriars Bridge and heading towards Kentish Town. Traffic was always painfully slow at that time of day.

  The signal then remained static until the call was received at 1105 hours, when it travelled to Holborn Police Station, where Tom had met Martin.

  ‘This is great, Pet, thanks. I can trace the sequence of events now. I just need to find out who was using the phone number that called Martin,’ he said.

  ‘You know the problem with all this data I’m giving you, don’t you?’

  ‘If you mean I can’t use it as evidence as you’re a deniable asset and this is an unlawful extraction of data, then yes, I do,’ said Tom grimly. ‘I’m not worried about that. I’m just trying to stay alive.’

  ‘Now that I understand, Detective. I’m hungry, can we get pizza?’

  ‘Sure. Why not,’ Tom said, suddenly realising he was hungry.

  *

  The small pizza restaurant was only a short walk from the hotel so they walked slowly, enjoying the cool night air after being cooped up in the stuffy hotel room.

  On the way Tom told Pet an abridged version of what had happened. He figured someone with a logical brain might be able offer valuable insights into his next steps.

  The restaurant was a typical London chain, with faux Italian prints hung on the walls and staffed by Eastern European waiters. It was almost empty, which suited Tom perfectly.

  They both ordered margherita pizzas and beer from the extensive menu.

  ‘So what next?’ asked Pet as they clinked bottles together.

  ‘Investigate that phone number. If you can get into the relevant databases, see who has been calling and been called by it. Then we can start getting a bit proactive against them. I need to know who the bent cops are, so I have some leverage going forward. I’ve also got some photos I want you to run through facial recognition.’ He sipped his beer.

  Pet nodded. ‘I can get you the data and run the pictures, but I don’t think Mike will give you any surveillance kit or weapons; it’s too risky with the political situation. They couldn’t risk US kit falling into the wrong hands, not with relations between the UK and the new president being what they are.’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to improvise, I guess. I have a few tricks up my sleeve. I also want to try to get hold of Ivan, the informant, and find out what happened when he got challenged by the Branko brothers. He may know something about how they found out about me.’

  ‘I understand from Mike that you are a man of many talents.’

  Tom looked at Pet, wondering how much she actually knew. ‘I’ve been about a bit,’ he replied cautiously.

  ‘So, tell me about your childhood then. Why the UK from Bosnia?’ she asked casually, taking him by surprise.

  He certainly didn’t want to talk about his full backstory with someone he’d just met and so he quickly changed the subject. ‘How did you get so adept with computers? You’ll have to be patient with me, I am a Luddite.’ When she frowned at the phrase, he explained, ‘I’m useless with computers.’

  ‘Just came naturally. My parents bought a second-hand computer and I almost instinctively knew how to operate it. I found a new world in the internet where it didn’t matter that I was a nerd. Before I knew it, I was learning all sorts of techniques on the hacking forums and practicing them on small institutions. I never looked to steal anything, I just got a kick out of breaching security systems. It felt like I was striking back against all the bullies, for some reason.’

  ‘Impressive. I genuinely don’t have a clue. I spent all my childhood outdoors, fishing and climbing.’

  ‘Ugh. I hate outdoors, especially when it’s cold. I hate the cold as well.’

  ‘So, are you living in London?’

  ‘For two years; my paymasters find it useful to have someone with my skill set available here in case anything comes up.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She raised an eyebrow at Tom. ‘Come on, DS Novak, I could tell you…’ She winked and held his gaze just a little too long with her sparkling, green eyes.

  ‘…You’d have to kill me,’ said Tom, finishing her sentence for her, slightly uncomfortable at the look in her eyes. He wondered if she was flirting as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Come on, we’ve work to do,’ he said.

  *

  Back in the hotel room, Tom handed the memory card from the camera over to Pet. Within seconds she had the photographs imported to her computer.

  ‘I’m running them through the CIA and NSA facial recognition database to see if we can ID these guys. It shouldn’t take long.’

  The silence was broken by a low-pitched buzzing from one of Pet’s bags. She picked up a bulky mobile phone from within and answered it.

  ‘Yeah? Okay. He’s here.’ She looked at Tom. ‘Mike wants to speak. This is a secure line, so you can talk freely.’ She tossed the phone to him and returned to the laptop.

  ‘Mike.’

  ‘Tom, how’s it going?’

  ‘Making progress. Pet knows her stuff.’

  ‘She’s the best there is; an amazing resource, and she’s security cleared so you can tell her anything. You want to t
ell me the whole story now I have the time to listen?’

  Tom sat on the bed and talked Mike through everything.

  ‘Jeez, Tom. What a fucked-up situation. Look, this is off-books for me. I’ve sent Pet because she’s deniable but, with the political tension at the moment, I can’t do anything traceable back to the agency. This means no weapons, no surveillance kit, no boots on the ground. No evidence, just intelligence. I’m sorry, my friend, but it could cause an international incident,’ he said, with genuine remorse in his voice.

  ‘Information is fine, Mike. I don’t want this to end up in court. I’m bringing them down, all of them. By whatever means.’

  ‘Well, be careful and don’t do anything stupid, like getting killed. And stay with Pet; she has access to most databases and those she doesn’t she can hack into anyway.’

  ‘I’m always careful, Mike.’ Tom hung up and handed the phone back to Pet, who was still busy at the laptop. Within a minute, a series of images and data erupted on the screen.

  ‘Whoa, Mr Englishman, you’re messing with some major criminals here! All Serb mafia, all with multiple convictions, all ex-military or paramilitary. I can’t give you any copies in case you get taken and these fall into the wrong hands, but look at the profiles while I go to the washroom. Don’t write anything down.’ She stood and walked across to the small bathroom.

  Tom sat in front of the computer and took in the individual subject profiles on the screen.

  Martin Green looked back at him from the screen. Real name Bojan Dedic, aged forty-two, ex-army, discharged under a big cloud. Convictions for robbery, racketeering, and firearms offences; suspected of a number of murders. Current location unknown.

  The passenger from the Audi was named as Filip Stevanovic, aged thirty-nine, also ex-army, with convictions for manslaughter, drug trafficking, and jewel theft. Escaped from a Swiss prison in 2015. Current location unknown.

  Finally, as Tom scrolled down, Zjelko Branko appeared on the screen. He saw the man he had photographed on the motorcycle outside the pub in Ealing, the picture staring back at him from the CIA database clearly a few years old. He looked at the pale blue eyes, pock-marked face, and contrasting light scar from his left ear to his bulbous nose. The recognition that he felt earlier flared in his mind. He read the biography impassively: former Serb paramilitary, suspected of war crimes including multiple civilian murders. The description noted an identifying mark of a tattoo on his left wrist of a Serb white eagle crest. He sat back, stunned, with realisation finally hitting home. He was cast back twenty-five years, once again a child in his family home. His dark eyes fixated on Branko’s pale, cruel eyes.